The Cracked Slipper

by Stephanie Alexander

  PART II

  CHAPTER 10

  A True Bond

  Winter arrived as hard as it ever does in Maliana, bringing with it chilly days and cold nights. Cartheans are a sun-loving people. Most of the thin-blooded courtiers left Eclatant Palace and hibernated in their own homes, confident they would not miss much. Eleanor had arrived during one of the busiest times of year, the long social season that started just before the Harvest Fest and culminated in the Waning. By the end of MidWinter the wealthy took a much needed break from ale, wine, and company to hunker down and regain the strength to do it all again in the spring.

  Eleanor welcomed the relative quiet when she returned from her honeymoon. Most of the guest bedrooms were empty and only those closest to the family or necessary to the country remained at court. She missed her friend Eliza, who had retired to the country with her husband, but Anne Iris stayed and kept her company. Even in the dark months Anne Iris had an uncanny ability to keep up with gossip. Eleanor was half convinced she snuck off to Afar Creek Abbey and spied on her friends and relations in the watching pool.

  As promised, Eleanor saved Margaret from a long winter in Harveston with her mother and Sylvia by calling her to the palace. Anne Iris heartily disagreed with this turn of events.

  “I don’t understand,” she said to Eleanor over a game of Dragon-eyed Jack on a lazy, rainy afternoon. “She’s quite possibly the most milquetoast creature I’ve ever encountered.”

  Eleanor laid a pair of cards on the table. “You just need time to know her. We’ll have lunch together when she arrives tomorrow.”

  “I shall need an ear trumpet to pick out one word.”

  “She can be quite funny.”

  “It’s true,” said Chou. “I once witnessed her attempting to speak with a handsome woodcutter. Hilarious.”

  “Now, Chou,” said Eleanor. “That’s unkind.”

  Chou hung upside down from the chandelier. He swung to and fro. His waving cheek feathers gave the impression he’d sprouted a red mustache. He rather resembled Eleanor’s father-in-law. “I’m only jesting. Margaret Easton does indeed have admirable qualities.”

  “Even if she proves to be the most charming lady at Eclatant,” said Anne Iris, “I don’t fancy her reporting our every conversation back to her mother and sister.”

  “You could hardly refer to Sylvia as an insufferable bitch,” said Chou, “or Imogene as a pitiful social climber.”

  “She wouldn’t,” said Eleanor.

  “How do you know?” asked Anne Iris.

  “Tell her,” said Chou. He dropped onto the table, scattering queens and a pair of sevens. “Tell her how you came to befriend Margaret.”

  “It’s rather embarrassing,” said Eleanor.

  Anne Iris scooted closer. “All the better.”

  “Well…” Eleanor collected her thoughts. “Imogene married my father a month before his death. I was excited at the thought of having sisters, but once I met Margaret and Sylvia I lost my enthusiasm. Sylvia…I’m sure you can see why. Margaret had nothing to recommend her. A plain, frizzy girl with no apparent opinions. After my father died she wasn’t kind or cruel, helpful or uncooperative. The opposite of Sylvia, who went out of her way to be as mean, messy and lazy as possible. All with my stepmother’s encouragement.”

  Chou’s whistle became a chortling growl, and Eleanor stroked his head.

  “In my thirteenth year I started having pains in my back and stomach. They’d come and go—”

  Anne Iris nodded. “Ah, I remember those first pains. They kept me awake for hours.”

  “I thought them the result of hunger…or hours bent over a washtub. And one morning I woke…and the blood…I thought I’d hemorrhaged.”

  “You didn’t.” Anne Iris’s mouth hung open.

  “How was she to know any different?” asked Chou.

  “I’d never been so frightened. Chou was off on a tour around town…” Eleanor smiled at him. “And honestly, darling, as dear as you are I don’t know that I could have discussed my mysterious condition with you. Not then.”

  “You humans. Everything is dirty and embarrassing to you. Birds are hardly humiliated by laid eggs.”

  Eleanor went on. “I hid in my room, under a sheet. When I didn’t turn up Imogene sent Margaret and Sylvia after me. Sylvia tried to yank me out of bed. She tugged at the sheet…and you could see…” She could still feel the mortification. Sylvia’s look of disgust. Her words to her sister.

  Look, Margaret, Skinnybones is finally growing up. It had made no sense to Eleanor, but it had obviously made sense to Margaret.

  “Margaret sent Sylvia back to the house. She told me I wasn’t bleeding to death. I remember thinking she’d been waiting weeks to find someone willing to do address the topic. She and Sylvia were only several months into the whole business themselves. Sylvia refused to acknowledge it, no matter how Margaret tried to confide in her. Imogene’s first concern was for their dresses and the bed linens. She insisted they attend to themselves and rinse away any stains, She even made them see to their own chamber pots.”

  “You can imagine how that went over with Sylvia,” said Chou. “Like a dragon with a broken wing.”

  “It was all about shame, not useful information,” said Eleanor. “They hid soiled rags in sealed burlap sacks until the knackerman came to collect the garbage we couldn’t compost each week. I never knew.”

  “HighGod above,” said Anne Iris. “I thought my own mother was a prig.”

  “So Margaret brought me tea, and then…” Eleanor’s eyes stung. “She went to her mother and asked for extra rags. I’d not have thought her capable, but she pushed until Imogene gave in. After that, she changed. She handed down old dresses. They were too short, of course, but better than what I had. She cleaned up after herself, and after Imogene and Sylvia. And the smiles…passed jokes…” Eleanor remembered Margaret sticking her tongue out at her mother’s back, her stubby nose wrinkling like a baby piglet’s. “We were not the best of friends, but I had one less enemy in the house.”

  “I commend her generosity,” said Anne Iris, “but in the end her loyalty must remain with her blood.”

  “If Imogene hadn’t had Eleanor she might have very well set Margaret to be the maid,” said Chou. “She has two horses, but she’s always bet on the flashy one. Margaret disgusts her.”

  Eleanor’s jaw clenched. “All the more reason to bring her to Eclatant.”

  “As you wish, Your Highness,” said Anne Iris. “I hope she thinks of you with as much affection as you do her. For your own sake.”

  During Margaret’s first days in Eleanor’s service they tiptoed around each other, but within a week Eleanor felt the cautious affection between them had won out. Anne Iris grudgingly accepted Margaret’s presence, and the three young women spent the remaining winter evenings huddled around the fire. Chou Chou sent them into peals of laughter with ribald tales from his flights around the castle and the marketplace. Eleanor found herself a font of knowledge for her unmarried friends. Anne Iris was predictably frank in her curiosity about Eleanor’s love life with Prince Gregory, and after the first few nights of feigned mortification Margaret joined in the questioning. If anything after several drinks Margaret’s prodding became an interrogation.

  “I do wonder,” said Margaret late one night, “is it preferable to lie there or move about?”

  Anne Iris’s eyes widened, and then she looked to Eleanor for an answer.

  “I suppose some form of enthusiasm is needed,” said Eleanor.

  Margaret swirled her wine around her goblet. “In the stories the women are always very keen, but I do wander if that would give one’s husband the impression of wantonness.”

  Margaret had an abiding fondness for romance novels. She’d been allowed to borrow her mother’s books, and Imogene’s tastes did not run toward the highly intellectual. Not being highly intellectual herself, this had suited Margaret just fine. She’d sometimes handed off a particularly torrid volum
e to Eleanor, and even Eleanor had found herself drawn into the longing and passion that came along with brave knights and damsels in distress.

  “One must indeed reach a middle ground,” Eleanor said.

  Margaret stood. “How depressing. I should hope I can reach the precipice of the mountain when my love reveals himself.” She excused herself to use the chamber pot.

  “Perhaps I was incorrect in my assessment of her docility,” said Anne Iris.

  “Now that she’s out from her mother’s skirts I’m sure she’ll surprise you.”

  Anne Iris seemed unconvinced, precipice of love or not. “We’ll see,” she said.

  Margaret returned with more questions, and Eleanor answered her with cautious optimism. While Gregory had not yet transported her to the heights of passion, he had not repeated the disaster of their wedding night. He drinking, while still a daily occurrence, was more subdued. He spent most of his days hunting j’rauzelles, the four-horned antelope that roamed the low hills outside of the city, with Dorian, Brian and the other young men who remained at the castle. They hunted on horseback because the unicorns could not be risked on such diversions, and anyway they were so fleet it would have been unfair to the quarry. The hunting parties left at dawn, and after a full day in the saddle Gregory came to her door, tired and in need of comfort. She would dismiss her ladies, rub his back, and listen as he told another variation on the same old hunting story. After he ate and relaxed he almost always took advantage of his rights as her husband. While she usually found her mind wandering, he was gentle enough and it wasn’t unpleasant. She enjoyed his company, and appreciated the peace.

  Dorian Finley remained the itchy button in her bodice. She found if she casually let slip she would be in the library he would find an excuse to drop in. He was always passing by on his way here or there, or returning a book he’d had in his room for weeks. He would fall into the next chair, and two hours disappeared. They poured over history and religious documents. They discussed great works of literature. They argued over current affairs, from the crown’s tithing of the Coveys (Dorian supported it and Eleanor did not) to the allegiances of the surrounding nations (both agreed the loyalties of Kelland would always lie with Svelya).

  He enthralled her. She had never found anyone other than Rosemary who shared her passion for learning and discourse. And Rosemary, while smart and insightful, did not share Dorian’s low drawl, nor did her mouth curve up so sensually before making a point. After one poetry discussion left her with sweaty palms she avoided any vaguely romantic topics. She usually brought Chou Chou, and asked him to bring along his grouchy raven, Frog. The two birds snoozed through their meetings like bored chaperones. She told herself she was married, and would not act on her infatuation, so it was all right.

  The fact that Gregory seemed thrilled his best friend and his wife got on so well made her squirm. Throughout the winter Eleanor rode High Noon in the indoor ring every morning, and Gregory was highly impressed. He called her a natural rider, and said she was ready to begin unicorn handling. He wanted Dorian to help him teach her.

  The Paladine, the sprawling complex of buildings that housed the Desmarais unicorn herd, was a mile outside the palace. It consisted of several long stone stables, a brood mare barn, two training rings, acres of pastureland, several warehouses and granaries, and the Paladin House. There were no guards or fortifications. The horned residents were their own protection. The Paladins, or unicorn-keepers, were all fit men in the prime of life. They had great status among the common people, and the position usually ran in families. Every few years a new man would come to the stable, show a connection with the creatures, and be allowed to stay on as an apprentice, but it was rare. Eleanor had heard the Paladins were an arrogant, uncooperative bunch.

  A balding man called Welker Tubbetts stood in front of her. Eleanor smiled at him and held out her hand, but he merely bowed and adjusted his chewing wad. “Pardon, Your Highness,” he said, “but I heard the princess just started riding a horse this winter. And you think she’s ready for this?” He scuffed his battered work boots.

  To Eleanor’s surprise Gregory took no offense. “I do, Welkie, and you know I wouldn’t waste your time.”

  “I don’t know,” Welkie muttered.

  “You’ll find her an apt student, like Mister Finley.” Gregory waved up at Dorian, who was seated on his black stallion, Senné.

  “I doubt it,” said Welkie. “Will give you credit, sir, I weren’t sure that black devil would ever submit. We don’t get many black ‘uns but they’re always flighty. You had him wrapped up in no time.”

  Dorian tipped his head at the compliment.

  “Ach, sire,” Welkie continued. “Seems soon to train your wifey here, and a waste of a good brood mare if she don’t take to it.”

  Eleanor prickled. “Excuse me, Mister Tubbetts, but I recall my husband telling me you managed five live births last year. I believe you have over one hundred breeding mares in the Paladine? If only five deliver foals, I think you can spare one for my training.”

  Gregory cleared his throat, Dorian coughed, and Welkie looked at Eleanor as if she had just sprouted a horn herself. “If you put it that way, Highness,” he said, and spat. “Come, there are a couple ladies over here you can meet.”

  She hitched up her skirts and followed him to a nearby paddock. Three unicorn mares grazed in the weak sunshine, their silver horns nearly brushing the ground. Each raised her head as they approached. The mares were shorter than the stallions, and more delicate of bone, but no less powerful.

  Gregory and Dorian stood on either side of her. She reached out and squeezed each man’s hand in her excitement, before remembering herself and dropping Dorian’s. Welkie opened the paddock door. The mares tossed their heads and moved to the back of the enclosure. He waved the three visitors in and spoke under his voice to Eleanor.

  “Now you know, m’lady, you can’t just talk to a unicorn. We Paladins spend our whole lives with them. We understand them. Fine men like your husband and Mr. Finley, those that keep their own stud, are near as fluent as we. The mounted soldiers can get by, enough to work together, but they don’t have a true bond. The magicians and witches have a bit of a way with them. Most other people couldn’t make out a word.”

  “A stallion on guard spoke to me once,” Eleanor said. “It was only a few words, but I understood him.”

  “Really?” said Welkie. “Then maybe your husband’s right. Anyway, as I was saying, unicorns ain’t chatterboxes. They speak in words, but also in breaths, and gestures, and with their eyes. Humans can’t replicate their language, but fortunately they understand everything we say. The trying part of the understanding is on our side. If you can learn to read every sign your unicorn offers you can have a conversation with her just as we’re speaking right now. They’re just as clever as people, maybe cleverer.”

  Gregory spoke up. “It’s a different kind of intelligence, Eleanor. It’s more…”

  “Sensate,” said Dorian. Gregory nodded.

  “Now it will be a while before you can think about riding one of these ladies. Some unicorns are trained to accept different riders, like the war mounts and sentries. When we hand a unicorn into the keeping of one person, like Vigor to the prince or Senné to Mister Finley, we like to give a young, green animal. One likely to accept only one rider, so there is no chance of an abuse of the privilege.”

  Welkie motioned for them to wait, and walked further into the ring. He spoke in a breathy voice too low for Eleanor to understand. He held both hands out, and the mares came to him. He turned to Eleanor.

  “Let’s see if one of these three takes a shine to you.”

  A month later Eleanor sat astride Teardrop, the mare she had chosen from the three in the paddock. She was a skittish thing, named for the birthmark on her right cheek. Eleanor had been drawn to her appraising look, but the pink splotch on her face sealed the choice. The other mares seemed too perfect, and Teardrop’s birthmark reminded her of the f
law in her own eyes.

  Few women ever rode unicorns, but the ones who did were permitted to wear leggings while mounted. For Eleanor, who had spent her whole life in heavy skirts, it was liberation. The soft calfskin riding pants made her silk stockings feel like sausage casings, and she rejoiced in the ease of loosening a belt and a few buttons to use the chamber pot without fear of wetting a petticoat. Riding astride was comfortable and easy after sitting sidesaddle on horseback.

  Welkie had been astonished at how quickly she began an earnest communication with Teardrop. Eleanor appreciated his praise, but did not fully understand it. She found the mare’s subtle cues and nuances, along with her airy speech, obvious and easily interpreted. She simply took in the whole picture, from the set of her ears to the swish of her tail, and Teardrop’s meaning could not have been clearer had she picked up a quill and written it out. Within a week Eleanor had been ready to ride.

  “Not meaning any insult, young masters,” Welkie had said to Gregory and Dorian, “but you two were plain slow compared with Princess Eleanor here, and I would have said you was some of my best students.”

  As Welkie gained confidence in Eleanor’s abilities he let her ride in the ring alone. This afternoon she looked up from checking Teardrop’s lead and saw the Paladin and Dorian leaning over the paddock gate.

  “Visitors,” Teardrop said. “What do they want?”

  “Let’s go find out.” Eleanor dismounted and Teardrop followed her to the gate.

  “Got some good news,” Welkie said. “You two are getting along right well. You ready for some new scenery?”

  “Do you mean it?” Eleanor clapped. She and Teardrop were both bored with circling the ring.

  “I do,” he said. “Why don’t you head out into the south pasture? There’s a nice trail back there. It passes the brook and heads out toward the Abbey. Mister Finley and Senné will join you. Make sure everything goes smooth-like.”

  “Gregory stayed up a bit too late playing sharpstick with Brian, so I offered,” Dorian said. “I hope you don’t mind.”